


dulce bellum inexpertis

by AlexiaBlackbriar13



Series: ubi amor, ibi dolor [5]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Cutting, Depression, Discovery of Self-Harm, Discussion of Excessive Exercise, Discussion of Self-Drowning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season 1, Self-Harm, Suicidal Oliver, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, discussion of suicide, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 13:31:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10104476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexiaBlackbriar13/pseuds/AlexiaBlackbriar13
Summary: Set in a slightly canon-divergent S1. The five times Oliver is caught self-harming and the one time he isn’t.5: John Diggle and Felicity Smoak





	

**Author's Note:**

> "dulce bellum inexpertis" - war is sweet for the inexperienced.
> 
> Andddd Part 5. Last part, +1, is a surprise ;) Thanks for all your support.
> 
> Please heed the trigger warnings in the tags before reading. This part does NOT play around.

Diggle must have known from the start, Oliver reckoned. It was the only explanation for how he reacted so calmly and rationally when the event known as The Incident occurred, although Felicity preferred to call it The Close Call. Moira and Walter must have informed the bodyguard when first employing him of the archer’s self harming tendencies. Or maybe it had been Lance - the detective had been overbearing and protective since finding out, and it would be exactly his style to tell Oliver’s ‘babysitter’, in case he didn’t know already. Felicity’s reaction was the complete opposite to Diggle - meaning that she freaked out. Though, he supposed, the way that his two partners came face to face with his self harm was rather unorthodox, and quite alarming. Felicity freaking out was to be expected. Diggle surprised him.

It was a mere two weeks after Felicity had been brought into the fold, after they’d dealt with the Dodger, that the Incident happened. The night before, Oliver slept particularly badly, waking every hour or so from terrible nightmares about his first year on the Island. He’d screamed himself awake the fifth time to find his family standing in the doorway, looking terrified and pitying, which just plagued him with guilt at having startling them awake at one in the morning. As a result, he was both physically and mentally exhausted. His PTSD was acting up, and he was having a bad day, with his hypersensitivity and paranoia making him antsy and jumpy.

His depression was rearing its head again as well. The intrusive thoughts didn’t make it any better. The snide, cruel voices inside his head which didn’t sound like him, but were his sub consciousness all the same, told him repeatedly that he was worthless, and an awful human being, and a monster. That maybe hurting himself and dying would make everybody else he knew happier.

Around two in the afternoon, when he couldn’t take it anymore and he was itching to grab a blade and begin cutting again, if only to rid himself of the anguish and guilt and vulnerability, to silence those thoughts, Oliver texted Tommy and Laurel.

 _It’s getting bad,_ he texted. _I think I might need you tonight._

Tommy didn’t respond. The little ‘ _Read Message_ ’ icon didn’t even come up. It was a Saturday, and Oliver supposed that he was in some female stranger’s bed somewhere, enjoying the weekend, with his cell phone turned off or tucked away in jeans that had been strewn to the floor, forgotten. Laurel replied, but she was in Central City, visiting her mother. There was no point in her coming back, because by the time she did, it would be near midnight, and too late. She told him to call if he felt like cutting later on, and that he was strong. That self harm was not the answer. Lance was in Central with her, so that ruled him out, and Oliver didn’t feel comfortable going to Hilton or his family for help.

It wasn’t exactly the support system he’d been told would be offered to him in a time of crisis.

So he asked Diggle to take them to the Foundry. He worked out for a few hours, making sure that he drank plenty of water and snacked on some apples, so he didn’t end up passing out. Excessive exercise was not a method of self harm he was into anymore. Cutting was more efficient, and easier. It was easier to hide than other forms of self harm as well, and quicker to carry out. Diggle didn’t bother him, instead deciding to vet some of the names left on the List, and when Felicity arrived later on in the evening, she found a name that Oliver could target that night.

Oliver was relieved. At least if he was out on the streets, taking down a member of Starling City’s criminal elite, he couldn’t cut. He couldn’t break his promise to Tommy and Laurel. Diggle and Felicity decided to stay behind in the Foundry as the Hood travelled out to take down Steven Perry, the head of the research and development department at Stagg Industries, who was secretly selling weapons plans to the Triad. It turned out not to be as easy a job as he was expecting. Perry had obviously heard of the Hood’s reputation and suspected he would be targeted, because he’d employed a large number of security guards for his penthouse suite.

Usually, Oliver wouldn’t have killed all of them.

This time, he did.

And he killed Steven Perry too, with an arrow to the throat, because when the man had been raising his hands to surrender, his fingers had brushed against one of his pockets and Oliver had thought he was reaching for a gun.

It had been instinct driving him. Pure survival instinct. After his nightmares and how he’d been feeling all day, he was on ultra alert and far too riled up not respond to threats that way. Rationality had retreated into his mind the moment the first guard raised his gun, and the animal had remained, and he’d fought because it was kill or be killed. And that was all it had ever been on the Island. The adrenalin of the situation meant that he didn’t realise he was covered in blood and there were eight dead bodies around him until the police sirens sounded, and he snapped into the present.

He ran. It was the only thing he could do. There was a suffocating weight sitting on his chest, clenching his heart, and Oliver knew that it was horror. Horror at himself, for having murdered those guys without a second thought. Horror at giving into that darkness writhing inside of him, giving into the animal. He ran all the way back to the Foundry, hoping that he would be able to ground himself once again, stop the animal from coming back, to lighten the load of his depression and PTSD by talking to Diggle and Felicity. The two people who made him better, who wanted him to be better, and inspired a pinprick of light inside of him.

But they were not happy. They looked at him with expressions of outrage and dismay and… fear. They feared him. Never before had they been confronted with the animal that lived inside Oliver, the darkness that so rarely erupted from him nowadays, but now, they saw it. They saw it clear as day. And in the argument and screaming match that exploded between the three of them, Felicity told him exactly as it was.

_“You’re a monster.”_

And Oliver could say nothing in response, to deny it. Because it was true.

He was a monster.

Felicity and Diggle left after side eyeing the archer as he changed into civilian clothes, shedding his blood soaked Hood jacket and dressing in simple jeans and a short sleeved black t-shirt. Oliver sat in utter silence for a few minutes, before he reached for his cell phone and dialled Laurel’s number, his hands still flecked with dried blood and shaking.

_You’ve reached Laurel Lance! Unfortunately I'm not available right now. Please leave a message after the beep._

“Laurel?” He whispered. “Um. Hi. You… you said to call if it got any worse. And it's… It’s worse. God, it's so much worse.” There was a noticeable tremor in his voice. “I'm sorry - I don't know what to do. I feel awful. I really want to cut but this time it's different. This time I - I don't just want to hurt myself. I don't know what to do. Please just - call me as soon as you get this. I think I need help. I don't want to let you and Tommy down, but I - I don't know if I can stop myself.”

He ended the call, and bowed at the waist, eyes scrunching shut as he breathed heavily, a pain that he knew was mental, despite the physical feeling of it, striking at his chest, making it tighten. That word was echoing in his head on repeat, and had risen to a screaming volume, causing him to clutch his ears and fall to his knees with a pained moan.

_Monster. Monster. Monster. Monster._

He didn't realise he had a knife in his hand and he was making cuts that were too deep, too long and too dangerous until it was too late. Oliver’s hands were shaking, and his vision was blurred and there was a dragging rattling sound coming from his lungs. His self-control was slipping and he suddenly found himself not caring anymore. Oliver didn't care if he bled out. He didn't care if he died. 

He was a monster. And monsters should be put down.

That was how Diggle and Felicity found him. They’d apparently been worried about him, after the archer had just allowed them to yell at him without so much as speaking a word in self-defence. His two partners had switched the lights on after descending the staircase to find Oliver curled up on the ground in a pool of his own blood.

There was so much blood. Too much blood. This time, his self harm had truly been life threatening. He was bleeding out from his wrists and Oliver didn't have the motivation to slow the flow of crimson onto the floor. Because of that, the empty satisfaction trickled away into guilt and shame.

Diggle pinned him to the floor and shouted, “Call an ambulance!”, placing so much pressure onto the cuts that the archer mewled weakly in pain, trying to struggle but his arms and legs feeling limp and numb.

Felicity was frozen, standing there with her eyes wide and mouth open, as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing. When Diggle repeated his demand more urgently, growling her name, the IT girl seemed to snap out of her trance and yanked her cell phone out, running upstairs into the club, which was open at full swing on a Saturday night. Oliver turned away with a sigh, eyes fluttering shut. Tommy was probably up there now, half drunk with beautiful women on his arms. He was going to be so angry when he found out about this.

“No hospitals,” he tried to say, but it came out a weak, garbled mess.

“Stay awake,” was all Diggle replied.

“Dig, please…”

“You just tried to kill yourself.”

“No, I -”

“Don't deny it,” Diggle interrupted, a dark glint flashing through his eyes. “These cuts are too deep to be self harm, Oliver.”

“Accident,” the archer whispered, tugging at his arm.

“No,” his bodyguard said calmly. “Suicidal.” But seeing the archer’s expression and sensing his slight confusion and blankness, he questioned, “Were you aware of what you were doing?”

Oliver shook his head, expression morphing into one of upset, yet also wonder. “Can't remember.”

“Memory lapse,” Diggle nodded. “It's the blood loss.” When the wonderful numbness washed over Oliver again and he closed his eyes in relief, head slowly tilting to the side, a harsh slap from his bodyguard startled him into full consciousness. “I told you to stay awake. Don't pass out on me, man, if you die then your family will never forgive me.”

He sighed. “Not your fault. Did this to myself.”

Diggle narrowed his eyes at him, releasing the pressure on the wounds for a brief second only to grab a towel from the countertop and then press onto them harder, making Oliver wince as tendrils of fresh pain lanced through his wrists. “Moira and Walter told me about your first self harm incident. How many have there been since then?” The archer swallowed and turned away, not wanting to answer, but his chin was gripped firmly so he was forced to stare directly into Diggle’s eyes. “Hey. Look at me. How many times, Oliver?”

A sudden anger came over him, making the archer shove at his partner’s arm furiously. “Why do you care?” he spat back at him, managing to sit up despite his bodyguard’s attempts at encouraging him to lie back down. “Like you and Felicity said, I'm a monster. And the world is better off without monsters. Without me. Just…” he shook his head. “Let me bleed out.”

The look of sheer devastation on Diggle’s face made Oliver uncomfortable and he tried to glance away again, settling his gaze on the staircase, where Felicity had last been. Seeing Diggle’s expression caused all of his anger to drain away as quickly as it had appeared, leaving him feeling exhausted, small and vulnerable.

“I'm sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn't mean for you two to find me like this.”

“You didn't mean for us to find you at all.”

“You’re mad.” The archer turned away, and Oliver didn’t realise that he was distressed by this fact until his bottom lip was quivering. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't apologise,” Diggle replied. “Just stay awake and conscious. We can talk about this later. You know that we didn’t mean what we said, right? You’re not a monster, Oliver.”

But he was. They were both right, and he'd taken action because of that. Diggle had no reason to regret his words, since they’d been correct. He found himself sighing heavily, hanging his head and fighting Diggle’s firm grasp on one of his wrists to scrape trembling fingers over his scalp, shivering when he realised that he was probably distributing flakes of dried blood through his hair. How long would it take for the ambulance to arrive? How long would it be until Oliver Queen was outed as self destructive?

“Your family never said your depression was this bad,” Diggle said quietly. “You never said your depression was this bad.”

He didn't have to answer that statement, thankfully, because Felicity reappeared, clunking down the staircase with her arms wrapped around her belly. Her eyes were red rimmed, and it wouldn't take a rocket scientist to work out that she'd been crying.

“Ambulance will be here in five minutes,” she rasped, staring pointedly at Diggle and avoiding eye contact with the archer. She was right to, Oliver supposed, lowering his gaze with a silent, choked back sob. Looking directly into the darkness was just like staring into a bottomless abyss of the unknown. And humans were scared of the unknown. “They’re going to meet us around the back, and they’re not turning lights or sirens on. I told them that it would be better not to draw any attention.” She finally looked at Oliver, but he couldn't tell what emotions were swimming within her eyes. It unsettled him greatly. “Tommy's upstairs. Do you want me to get him so he can meet us at the ambulance?”

“Is he drunk?” He asked hesitantly.

“Not that I could tell. He's behind the bar tonight, he can't afford to drink.”

“If he's behind the bar, he can't leave.”

“His best friend just attempted suicide,” Diggle said flatly. “I think that's more important than Verdant.” He answered for Oliver, turning to Felicity and saying, “Only one of us will be allowed in the ambulance.”

She nodded, somewhat cautious. “I'll stay behind and drive Tommy in my car,” she offered. “Do you want to call the Queens, or should I?”

“Don't need to call them,” the archer muttered angrily.

“I'll call them,” Diggle spoke over him, hauling Oliver up to his feet. The archer swayed slightly, his head pounding and legs feeling like jelly, so the bodyguard was forced to release the pressure on one of his wrists to grab his side. “He's my charge, I should take the blame for this.”

Oliver wanted to say that neither of them should take the blame for this, because if anybody was at fault here, it was him. But before he could speak again, his knees crumpled beneath him and he hit the floor, suddenly feeling weaker than a new-born kitten. It only took a few seconds for the blackness to overwhelm him, the blood loss making him too dizzy, and with Felicity’s voice echoing in his mind as she frantically called his name, Oliver gave into unconsciousness.

* * *

“What happened?”

Oliver's eyelids fluttered open, and he immediately went on the alert, jerking on the hospital bed he was lying on and ripping the sheets off. His wrists ached terribly due to the cuts from earlier, but his head was clearer and he seemed to have regained some strength. Panic overtaking his mind as the disorientating, bright environment reminded him of an ARGUS interrogation room he'd once been tortured in, Oliver tried to rip the IV in his arm out and vault off the bed. Steady hands on his shoulders, waist and knees stopped him. His family and Diggle finally blurred into view above him, and the archer relaxed immensely when he caught sight of Tommy, Laurel, Lance and Felicity standing on the other side of the room, looking nervous and shifting uncomfortably.

“What?” He croaked, coming to realise that Walter had directed the question towards him, as he'd been waking.

“What happened?” Walter asked, sadness evident in his tone. He released Oliver’s knees when the archer moved them slightly, not liking being confined. “We just want to understand, son. You seemed to be getting better, you haven't self harmed in… _months_ , and then you just… try and commit suicide?”

“Wasn't trying to kill myself,” Oliver groaned, raising the arm without the IV to cover his face. “It was an accident.” Sure, his thoughts had been a little suicidal, but he hadn't been trying to commit suicide. That wasn't who he was.

“You lost over two pints of blood,” Moira cried out. She was very obviously quite upset over this. Her fingers were trembling as she dabbed her red eyes with a tissue, and Oliver winced, a crushing wave of guilt passing over him at having caused her distress. Thea didn't look much better, but she was sitting down in a chair with her entire body shaking, tissues torn to shreds in her hands as she leant into Tommy's hand placed supportively on her shoulder. “Some _accident_ , Oliver!”

“It _was_ an accident,” he insisted. “I never cut deep enough to cause significant blood loss and now that I'm experienced at -” He cut himself off, swallowing.

Moira seemed to pick up on his finished sentence, however, her eyes afire as she finished, “Experienced at self harm? So you know precisely how much you can hurt yourself before you do so permanently? You could have _died_ today, Oliver!”

“I know what I'm doing!” he snapped in return at her.

“So what would you call today?” She shot back. “A momentary lapse in carefulness? An _accidental_ slip of the blade?”

“I've been doing this long enough that I know precisely what constitutes a ‘slip of the blade’.” His voice had risen to almost a deafening volume, rage leaking into his tone and making the other occupants of the room draw back in shock and wariness. “And usually I _am_ careful when I cut. Today, I was just upset and my head wasn't on straight. I lost focus. It was an _accident_. How many times do I have to repeat that until it gets into your heads!?”

There were several beats of tense silence, and Oliver found himself deflating when he caught sight of Thea’s frightened face, and Laurel and Tommy’s wide eyes. None of them had been expecting his outburst. He immediately regretted exploding on them like that. But they weren't listening and they _didn't understand_. They would never understand.

“Because we think that this might have been a subconscious suicide attempt,” Diggle finally broke the silence, solemn and serious. “And we’re all terrified that next time this happens, nobody will be around to save you.”

“I told you when you first started being my bodyguard, Dig,” Oliver muttered. “I don't need saving.”

“Physically, maybe not. But mentally, I think you do. This self harm issue has been going on longer than you’ve been home in Starling, hasn't it?” Walter asked, sounding defeated.

Oliver stayed silent. Better to say nothing at all than admit that his problem stretched far beyond that first incident when they caught him cutting in his bedroom. He'd started the self harm back when ARGUS had been forcing him to work for them, starving and sleep depriving himself, and continued that, as well as began cutting and excessively exercising, when with the Bratva in Moscow.

“How many times has this happened, Oliver?” Diggle questioned, arms folded across his chest as he levelled a look at his charge that would have made any man other than the archer flinch. “Since you’ve arrived home. I dread to think of how many incidents there were before that. How many times since you’ve arrived back in Starling?”

He didn’t have to answer, because his best friend decided to for him. “This is the fifth time,” Tommy sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “Well, fifth that we’re aware of.” His voice sounded so tired that it made Oliver cringe, twisting on the bed so that he was sitting up against the headboard. “Fifth self harming incident, but the first suicide attempt.”

“For god’s sake. _Not_ a suicide attempt,” the archer protested, getting tired of having to repeat this.

“The fifth incident?” Thea practically whimpered, hand clapped to her mouth.

Moira stared wide-eyed at Tommy. “What and when exactly were these other incidents which we don't know about?”

Tommy and Laurel began to explain cautiously about his excessive exercise, not eating and sleeping, self drowning and cutting. Lance even pitched in at one point to inform them how he'd caught Oliver running himself into a wall and cutting again at the QC gala. When Walter and Moira heard that, they looked disappointed and guilty. They had, after all, trapped the archer by taking away his phone, and forced him to face being asked personal questions by investors, who purely wanted to know about his scars. Oliver wanted nothing more but to bolt out of there, leap out of the window or suddenly shrink down to microscopic size so he was invisible, just so he could avoid the horrified, agitated and worried gazes from his friends and family. This was precisely why he'd never wanted Moira, Walter and Thea to know about his continued self harm. They all looked vaguely traumatised.

“I called you,” Oliver told Laurel, hoping that by informing her of his keeping to their promise, it would be better. “I called you and left a message. I tried to contact you.”

“I know,” Laurel replied, distressed. “And I have to admit, it is partly my fault you're in the hospital. You wouldn't have done this if I'd been able to talk you down.” Turning to the Queens, she added, “I'm so sorry. I promised Oliver I'd be there for him to help him not start cutting, but my cell phone ran out of charge.”

“And my phone wasn’t on at all, all day,” Tommy shook his head. “We told you we’d be there for you, and we weren’t. We failed you.”

“Guys, this wasn’t your fault,” Oliver sighed, tipping his head back against the backboard and rubbing his eyes tiredly. “This wasn’t anybody’s fault except mine.”

“To be honest, kid, it’s all our of faults,” Lance spoke up, glancing over at Tommy and Laurel, before glancing towards Moira and Walter with an apologetic expression and saying guiltily, “We should have told you. At least then maybe you would have been able to break his bad habit before it escalated to this.”

“I think it’s been heading this way for a while anyway, Quentin,” Moira sighed.

“And Dig and I said some pretty hurtful things to Oliver earlier on,” Felicity confessed, biting her lip. “If you were feeling awful all day anyway, we… probably made it worse.”

“You didn’t know,” he tried to reassure her. “I have good days and bad days. Today just happened to be a bad day.”

“Nevertheless,” Walter lifted up his chin, “We’ll have to take action. I’m sorry, Oliver, but none of us can sit by and watch you destroy yourself from the inside out.”

“We care about you way too much,” Thea agreed softly.

Moira nodded, smoothing down the sheet draped over his legs as she commented darkly, “Your mental illnesses have been left untreated for far too long - we should have arranged something as soon as you arrived back from the island. Your depression has been allowed to fester, and you’ve suffered horrifically because of it. It’s time for you to get some help, sweetheart.”

“We know you’re not going to like it,” Laurel cut in, before the archer could raise a protest. “But Oliver, seeing a therapist, talking about the things that happened to you… it might help.”

“It’s not going to be that easy,” Oliver told them, staring down at his hands uncomfortably. “I can’t talk about the island to anybody.”

“Sweetheart -”

“No, Mom,” Oliver’s eyes snapped up to hers, and Moira frowned at the coldness she saw there. His voice cold, he continued, “I _can’t_ talk about it.”

An expression of realisation passed over the detective’s face, and Lance took a step towards them. “As in, you’re _not allowed_ to talk about it?”

When Oliver gave a short nod to confirm, Felicity caught on quickly, eyebrows shooting up in surprise as she questioned, “You’ve been made to sign a non disclosure agreement?”

“By who?” Diggle asked.

He shook his head. “I can’t say. But if I need to see a therapist, then I’ll be seeing one belonging to… that organisation. A lot of things happened on the island which I’m not allowed to share with civilians.” He ran a hand over his face before the archer decided that giving it was going to be the best solution to this. Seeing a therapist assigned to him by ARGUS would be bad, but not awful, and it might actually help. He wanted to get his depression under control so he wasn’t feeling like pain and death were the only viable exchanges for flashbacks and suicidal thoughts. “Look, I’ll see a therapist. I agree with you, Laurel, that it could help. But if that’s going to happen, then… Dig, you’re going to have to contact your _friend_.”

Shock and then suspicion flashing over his bodyguard’s face, Diggle demanded, “How do you know Lyla?”

“You know who she works for? Which organisation she operates with?” When the ex-soldier gave a slow nod, Oliver shot him a pointed look. “Same people who made me sign a non disclosure agreement. Ask her to set up a meeting for me with Waller.”

“Who's Waller?” Thea asked instantly.

Oliver exhaled, replying shortly, “Trust me, you do not want to know.”

“Alright,” Diggle agreed cautiously. “If you’re sure you know what you’re doing.”

Oliver hesitated, but then offered a hand for his bodyguard to shake, saying firmly, “Thank you for keeping me alive and stopping me from bleeding out.” He paused. “Despite how many times I might have told you to let me. Memory is a little shot. Can't really recall much that happened after you and Felicity finding me.”

“We’re friends, man,” Diggle responded honestly, shaking the hand securely once before patting the archer on the shoulder gently. “I wouldn’t have let you die.”

“And I appreciate that.” He turned to the blonde IT girl still nervously holding back next to Lance, adding, “Felicity, thank you for calling the ambulance.”

Felicity’s cheeks reddened, and Oliver found the small smile on his face widening at the blush that appeared on her face and neck. “It was nothing,” she murmured.

“No, it was something,” Oliver corrected.

“I was freaking out,” she confessed, fumbling her fingers with a nervous laugh. “The last time I saw that much blood was -” She cut herself off, flushing an even deeper crimson before muttering, “Never mind.”

She was probably thinking of how she’d first discovered Oliver was the vigilante, when Moira had shot him and he’d ended up with a Zone 2 wound in his shoulder. That had just missed the carotid artery, and bled a lot, according to Diggle. With the archer’s cutting of his wrists, the blades had slipped deep enough to just miss his ulna arteries. If he’d hit that blood vessel, he certainly would not be alive. He would have bled out completely within eight minutes or so. 

Lance shot her a strange look, but came forwards to set a gentle hand on Oliver’s shoulder, informing him, “We’ll head off, it’s pretty late. We’ll let you get some rest, Queen. Laurel, Merlyn, come on, I’ll give you both a lift home.”

“We’ll head off as well,” Diggle nodded, motioning to Felicity as she picked up her jacket from a waiting chair. “If that’s alright with you, Mrs Queen, Mr Steele.”

“Of course, Mr Diggle,” Walter said, before Moira could speak up. “You went above and beyond your duty to protect Oliver today, and have our sincere gratitude. Miss Smoak, thank you as well. You can both expect bonuses some time soon.”

Felicity began spluttering at that, and Oliver didn’t think it was possible for her to blush even more, or become even more flustered, but the way she was acting around his family was adorable. She, Tommy and Laurel came over to give the archer careful hugs before departing, Diggle giving him a quick shake of the hand with the promise to be back on bodyguard duty early the next morning. Soon, Oliver was left alone in the hospital room with his mother, stepfather and sister. Shrinking back slightly into the bed, he decided to stay silent and wait for one of the others to speak, trailing his fingers along the threads in the scratchy blanket over his legs.

“Oliver…” his mother started, sounding hesitant. “I think we need to have an honest conversation about –“

“Mom,” he cut in nervously. “Can we please - can we wait until I’m out of the hospital to talk about this? Please?”

Her expression softened, and she whispered, “Of course, sweetheart,” smoothing down his sheets with one hand whilst caressing his cheek with the other. He let out a quiet sigh, leaning into the warm hand as he closed his eyes. The kind human contact was appreciated, especially due to his feeling so vulnerable. “You must be tired. We’ll let you sleep.”

When she pulled away, and she, Walter and Thea began moving to pick up their coats, panic struck Oliver. “You’re leaving?”

“Oh, well,” Moira looked confused. “I thought that’s what you would have wanted.”

“Oh.” The archer wouldn’t look any of them in the eye. The truth was that whilst he didn’t want to have a conversation about what had happened, and dig into his feelings when he already felt so emotionally vulnerable, he didn’t want to be alone. Oliver had no idea what he would do if his dark thoughts began tormenting him once again. He was in a hospital, but the clinicalness of the place, paired with the detached, aloof staff, unsettled him. If he began feeling awful here, trapped in his cold environment with no empathetic ear offered to him, and nobody to show a shred of sentimentality towards him, he might snap. And that would not be a good thing. “You… you can stay. If you want. I don’t want to talk about… all this but I don’t mind if you…” Seeing their faces, Oliver wrapped his arms around himself, closing himself off. “Doesn’t matter. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” Thea said softly, tears brimming in her eyes. Her coat dropped from her hand like a dead weight, and she rushed over from near the door to practically throw herself at Oliver, and he embraced her if only to stop her from careening into the wall. “You don’t want to be alone, but you don’t want to admit that to us, because you’re scared and you think that’s a weakness.”

“Fear _is_ a weakness,” he muttered under his breath, burying his nose into her hair and wincing when his sister shifting in the embrace put pressure on the bandaged up cuts on his wrists.

“It’s alright to be afraid, Oliver,” Walter shook his head, a small smile spreading across his lips as he too put his coat aside to walk back over in a much calmer manner. “We were all terrified tonight. Do you consider us weak?”

They were definitely physically weak, but they were all much mentally stronger than Oliver was, for certain. “No. I’m sorry I scared you,” the archer offered.

“It was more the thought of losing you _again_ that scared us,” Moira informed him. She brushed her hand through his hair, and Oliver dropped his head back onto his pillow with a tired sigh. “Sweetheart, you’re exhausted. Sleep. We’ll stay with you, and I promise we will be here when you wake up.”

She wasn’t wrong. He was drifting off to sleep very slowly and there wasn’t anything he could do to stop it. There was no caffeine available, and no exercise equipment, so Oliver couldn’t force his body to stay on the alert by overloading his nerves like he usually did. He was so tired that he most likely wouldn’t even dream. “You need rest too.”

“We didn’t lose two pints of blood today,” Thea quirked an eyebrow. “I think the three of us can survive sleeping on hospital cots and chairs for a night, Oliver.”

“Or multiple nights,” Moira corrected. “I spoke to Dr Lang - they don’t want to release you until a psychiatric evaluation is performed.”

The archer grimaced, shifting on the bed so he was lying on his side and clutching a pillow to his chest. Yeah, that wasn’t happening. But if his family were staying overnight with him, he wouldn’t be able to sneak off and sign himself out AMA tomorrow morning. “Can’t we postpone it? Or get the therapist that Diggle’s friend’s boss will assign to me to do it?”

Moira looked unhappy at that idea, and exchanged a look with Walter. The Brit’s face remained impassive, but Oliver could read them both well enough. His parents were not stupid - they suspected he was trying to get out of the psychiatric evaluation, but they both thought that it was a good idea. The archer didn’t know how exactly it would help, considering that he had very nearly failed his very first one when arriving home in Starling. He’d been teetering on the edge of failing his ARGUS ones for years. He was bound to fail it this time. He couldn’t afford to be sectioned, or placed on medication - Oliver had a duty as the Hood to protect and serve the city, taking down the criminal elite.

“We’ll see,” was what his mother said in response, but Oliver could tell she was only saying that because she thought a flat out no would upset him in his fragile state of mind. “Good night, son.”

Oliver reached out to squeeze her hand, managing a small smile before his eyes fluttered shut and he began regulating his breathing. He tensed slightly when he felt Walter’s hand brush up against his shoulder and Thea press a kiss on his forehead, but eventually he let out a sigh and relaxed. He might as well get some sleep. He would need to be well rested for tomorrow to handle anything the doctors and his family threw his way. Using his right hand to gently thumb at the bandages over his left wrist, Oliver pulled his legs up to his chest, beginning to slip into the throes of sleep.

Mentally healthy or not, suicidal or not, he would live to see the next sunrise. That was all he could ever wish for.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Please leave kudos and comment.
> 
> Tumblr: @alexiablackbriar13  
> Twitter: @lexiblackbriar


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